Tripping
by inkasrain
Summary: Everything gets harder on family trips. Petrelli backstory.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own "Heroes" or any of the characters described below. (Where have you heard that before?)_

**Summary:** Everything gets worse on family trips.

* * *

**Tripping**

On family trips, it was always Nathan's job to watch Peter and make sure he didn't wander away. 

"Watch Peter, Nathan," his mother would say as the car was loaded, "and make sure he doesn't wander away." Here she would smile, that strange sad-and-happy smile Nathan never understood. Her eyes would crinkle, and she would almost whisper, "again."

"Now, Nathan," his father would say, as they arrived at the day's distraction, "watch your brother. Make sure he doesn't wander away again." Dad's eyes were always busy, and very sharp. There was something else there too, though, something dull and hot that hid and was—usually—quiet. Nathan pretended it wasn't there, just like everyone else.

Peter had something of a reputation for disappearance on those family trips. He never meant to upset anybody (his mother repeated this vehemently as her tears died and the hugs grew looser) or even, it seemed, to go anywhere. But there was always (always) something. Something to see, to avoid, to find…

This was standard operating procedure with Peter. It just got worse, as many things do, on family trips.

There was the time (the first Nathan could remember, before he had been given his job) when Peter had decided to join a family flying a kite on the beach. Nathan was seven at the time, and he could still remember his mother's frantic screeches as she turned full circle and not found her little boy. Peter had been missing for twenty minutes when the mother of his new family had heard the commotion and connected them with the little tagalong.

Only Peter, Dad would later say in his better moods, could find a Dutch family to get lost with, three miles from home.

Then there had been the searingly memorable trip to the zoo (Nathan was nine,) when they had finally found Peter in the Butterfly House. Fascinated, had been watching those glorified moths flutter through their sad little lives for three quarters of an hour. Apparently he had never left with the rest of the Petrellis, the fact of which did not make life (or sitting) easy for Nathan afterwards. Still, it wouldn't have been so bad if Peter had just stopped gabbing about those stupid butterflies. Three days later, butterflies, butterflies, butterflies were still all he could talk, think, or even (it seemed) dream about. This, of course, helped no one forget the incident or the accompanying parental hysterics. Nathan took to kicking Peter under the table whenever he opened his mouth, but this, it turned out, only exacerbated the situation. It took three solid weeks before Nathan decided that his family had returned to pre-zoo functioning. Those were not three weeks Nathan thought he would be adding to his all-time best list.

That, of course, was before the camping trip.

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_A/N: This story got longer than I anticipated... I could continue, if you like._


	2. Chapter 2

_(A/N: Just a point about Peter and Nathan's ages. I think they probably are farther apart than I've written. For my particular purposes though, I'm placing them about four or five years apart.)_

* * *

The camping trip had begun as any other Petrelli family excursion, which was to say, tense and behind schedule. The help loaded the car, while Dad went to the back for an early smoke. Mom began filling a tote bag with every household medication known to man (oral and otherwise.)

Nathan sat on the front steps with Peter, successfully ignoring the familiar spectacle. Peter was fast asleep, his head sagging onto the ornate ailing-- eleven years of family trips had failed to make an early riser out of the kid. Nathan had his attention divided neatly between his copy of Reader's Digest and the clamor inside the house. He was waiting for the old busy summons, but it was behind schedule (standard delivery time being long before any essentials found their way into the car.) Nathan was not an optimist, and did not let himself consider the possibility that maybe this time… well; maybe Peter could look after himself for once. Not thinking about this, he turned to the "Letters to the Editor" which he often found more entertaining than the funny pages.

"Nathan!"

Nathan repeated several words he was not permitted to say in the appreciative silence of his mind before standing up. "Yes, Mom…"

"Nathan, dear, come inside! I need you for a moment."

"Peter's asleep out here, Mom."

Clattering footsteps (his mother could always clatter, even in sneakers) approached the open door, and her morning-pale face poked out. "Is he? Oh, little dear, he never can sleep the night before these big trips. You'll keep an eye on him, won't you Nathan? Make sure he doesn't wander off again?"

The question-mark did not make it a question.

With a sigh. "Yes, Mom."

"There's my good boy." And she was off again, probably to gorge the guestroom medicine cabinets.

* * *

It would be neither fair nor accurate to say that Nathan Petrelli resented his brother. Their relationship was, from the beginning, far more complex than such things. Perhaps it was the difference in the brothers' ages, or the wide disparity in their natures. Whatever the reason, (and there was an understandable lack of curiosity about this peculiarity on their parents' part) there was a decided absence of petty squabbles between the two brothers.

It would, however, be true to say that Nathan did not particularly enjoy being entrusted with the whereabouts of his younger brother. As a young boy, he had been simply another pair of (occasionally fruitless) eyes—a useful addition, not to mention an occupation for the already responsibility-craving Nathan. The ensuing years, however, had somehow solidified this understanding into an unyielding obligation. In the every-day course of things (aside from the odd disastrous supermarket visit) this did not chafe Nathan terribly. He had, after all, always enjoyed the sense of power that came with responsibility.

It was in these close, tense hours, those times when his family seemed to rattle around him like marbles in a pill bottle that the sharper edges of his job slipped from their mundane sheathes.

In other words, family trips stank like the morning after a loosing election.

* * *

Yet by evening, the Petrelli family had successfully located the campsite and pitched (if you could call it that) their two tents. In fact, the trip was so far going preternaturally smoothly. Dad hadn't lost his temper. Mom hadn't gotten carsick. They had even survived two rest stops and a lunch break without loosing sight of, misplacing or otherwise letting go of Peter.

Nathan was exhausted, and resignedly wondering when the second axe was going to fall. He didn't have very long to wait.

"Don't let Peter wander off again, Nathan."

Sitting up (he was lying on the damp earth in front of the tents,) Nathan sighed "I _know,_ Dad."

Dad looked down at him, that hard sad thing swirling darker behind his light gray eyes. "Is that a tone, Nathan?"

Long breath. Long, deep, easy, politician-in-training-never-let-'em-see-you- sweat breath. "No, Dad."

"Good."

Nathan glanced toward the grill, where Peter was helping Mom get supper. A small smile played on his lips. He caught Nathan's gaze, and winked. Nathan suppressed the urge to stick his tongue out-- Peter was a crazy dreamer, but he wasn't stupid. He knew what Dad was telling his older brother.

It was just that Peter never thought he would need watching.

* * *

_A/N: Wow, this must be a healthy story, it keeps growing-- I thought I was writing a one-shot! Sorry if it's moving a little slowly._


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three: the audacious little jumped-up one-shot continues to beat its author into submission..._

* * *

It was 2:30 in the morning, and Peter Petrelli was watching the stars. 

Or trying to, at any rate. Truth be told, Peter found himself sharply disappointed in the star-strewn view he studied so intently through the thicket of surrounding greenery. They had driven all the way up to New Hampshire, and he had expected the stars as seen from that far-flung, verdant state to be something spectacular. Oh, they were bright, certainly, and sharper than the milky studs you saw at home. And you couldn't deny that there were an awful lot of them. But… that was all. These stars didn't sparkle as Peter had thought they would, as he had been led to believe through a combination of encyclopedias and distracted motherly assents. They didn't even twinkle, and for Scott's sake, wasn't that a prerequisite? The Christmas lights at the Planetarium were more exciting.

Peter dropped his binoculars to his chest with a sigh. Eleven, he had found, seemed to be an age of profound disillusionment. Athletes played sports for obscene amounts of money, girls were (or were becoming) different for reasons beyond long hair, and now it turned out that the stars were pretty much the same wherever you went. The changes were disconcerting, and something in his blood told Peter that bigger, more ominous truths loomed on the horizon. What these disturbances might be or might portend, Peter had very little idea-- but already his heart ached for his wilting innocence.

Feeling suddenly tired and strangely melancholy, Peter rose and brushed off the backs of his earth-damp pajamas. At least he could still dream like a kid.

* * *

Peter slept fitfully, starting in and out of various bright and grainy dreams that gave him no rest. Finally, he stumbled over a snoring Nathan and tottered from the little tent, clutching a comic for company. _Maybe a change of scenery_, he thought. It was an effort to think, and it occurred dimly to Peter that he was not quite awake, and therefore it perhaps wasn't such a bright idea to take a skip through the woods at this hour of the morning…

The dreaming Peter didn't agree, however. This part was not quite sure what it wanted, but to lie down, to… to _fold_ before the looming inevitability of an adult future decidedly did not sit well. _What does that have to do with sleeping?_ The conscious Peter wondered, but he was not going to get an answer. He blinked as the sky grew pale before his eyes… but now everything stood out in the glistening, jewel-brightness of his dreams, the heavens were hung with stars big and wonderful as red apples, which seemed now to drip tantalizingly from enormous tree limbs…

The waking Peter was aware of leaves and branches scraping painfully at his bare feet, of stumbling over ugly roots, and wished for a soft bed and a warm hug. But something at the campsite had scared the dreaming Peter, and he couldn't go back.

He gave himself up to the fantasy.

* * *

Nathan awoke to the uncomfortable sensation of clammy dampness and the sound of ringing voices. He could not hear what they spoke of, but he knew the inflections, could feel the volume registering with a part of himself that knew viscerally when to stay away from his parents.

There were not many things that made his parents loose control like this. The list was short; the secretary, Mr. Linderman, and Peter. _No_, and the thought pierced Nathan's overwhelming desire to sleep out the storm, _more like the lack of Peter…_

Nathan swore and staggered up out of his sleeping bag. He stumbled out of the tent, nearly disgorging the small space of its meager contents in the process.

"Mom?" he croaked. "Dad, what…"

Silence fell, as his parents stared at him. Both were still in sleep things, and Dad was barefoot. Nathan could see the red staining his mother's eyes and cheeks, and felt something cold clunk against his small intestine. "He's gone… again?" Nathan whispered hoarsely, though he already knew the answer.

They said nothing, but Mom choked on a sob as Dad held up a small pair of binoculars and gestured to the wilderness.

* * *

_TBC... thanks for the reviews!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Don't worry, it's coming 'round the mountain.

* * *

_

Nathan had never before appreciated how long a day could be.

It was 9:00 a.m. when the dull growl of five engines interrupted the eerie serenity of the campsite. By 9:45, the freshly arrived park rangers had a small search party organized to scan the surrounding area. The rangers were appropriately courteous and sympathetic, but it was all too clear that their level of concern was significantly lower than that of the Petrelli's. Peter had been missing for a relatively short time, and it seemed unlikely to the Park Rangers that he could have gotten very far.

These men, of course, were not privy to the same hissing whispers as Nathan was. Nathan sat close to his parents (he had not been allowed to join the search party) trying to concentrate on his Reader's Digest. He had been reading the same page for fifteen minutes. The words "Linderman" and "ransom" pierced his selective deafness often, but they did not ring half as loudly as the strained, tortured tones of betrayal and accusation.

Ravenous with curiosity, and more afraid than he could recall being in his life, Nathan clutched the magazine like a life-raft and waited.

* * *

Peter was dreaming.

He dreamt of terrible heights, of looming monstrosities that shrank as he rose so far above them. He floated on pillows of downy cloud, drifting like a leaf on a clear summer stream. Yet his hands and feet were heavy, weighed down with pain and a hot, stinging stickiness. His arms strained to keep him aloft, and the burning seemed to course through all his limbs.

A small corner of Peter's mind (the center of sanity in our nightmares) bulged with latent frustration. It cried, implored the frightened boy, urged him to wakefulness. But terrifying and strange though his nightmare was, Peter could not, would not wake. In the loaded quiet of the night wilderness and the dreams it brought, Peter had come to understand his life. His whole world was suddenly spread bare before him, washed in a harsh and ugly light he had not ever perceived before. It was world of secrets, of pressure, of deafening silences. It was hard for Peter, a boy who longed to trust, to give and receive love unconditionally.

Yet until now, he had been shielded, shaded from the cruel exposure. His mother had stood before him, much of the time, as had Nathan. His own need to be blind had kept him away from it all.

But no more. Eleven was nearly twelve, and twelve was nearly teenaged, old enough to know. To know and be responsible for the knowledge of dark things that happened behind mahogany doors and pinstriped suits. Peter was not even sure what it was he so detested, but he knew it was something that was utterly absent in his own soul and therefore that it would destroy him. He didn't want it, but could see no way out. Everywhere he looked, clocks ticked forward, relentlessly onward to the hour when he would be irrevocably joined with the bones that lay in his family's closets.

Faced with this, Peter chose his nightmares gladly.

* * *

By two in the afternoon, the number of humming engines had multiplied, and was harmonizing with the crackle of at least 15 two-ways. The minutes ticked by, sliding beyond reach even as they lingered.

Nathan's legs were numb. He had not moved from his crouched position by his parent's tent. He could feel the tension in the tent behind him like a throbbing heat, building to a terrible pressure. The rangers had offered several times (steadily more insistently) to take the three to the Station. Each attempt was met only with a cold steady glare from Mom, and the wordless argument ended. She would not leave, and that meant that Dad and Nathan were not going anywhere.

Nathan did not want to move regardless. Movement, a change in scenery, would crystallize the whole ordeal into reality and Nathan intended to avoid that for as long as possible. He was not used to helplessness, and this necessary inaction chafed at his very nature. Without command, without control, he was left with nothing but worry and whispers and a sweat-soaked copy of Reader's Digest.

The hours passed. The sun turned westward, slanting rays nearly solid with painful brilliance through the thick trees. Slowly, slowly, the light faded and the tops of the trees began to blur into the deepening sky.

The crunch of leaves right before him startled Nathan from his vigilant reverie. "Here, kid," came a woman's voice, and a cup of coffee and a chocolate bar were placed beside him. Nathan blinked. _Kid_? he thought with an edge of irritation, but then a spasm of hunger seized his gut. The aroma rising from the cheap coffee was sharp, bitter and wonderful, and Nathan was not yet so proud as to ignore a kindness, however condescendingly offered. "Thanks," he muttered, ripping into the plastic wrapping.

"Take it easy, kid," she said, "he's out there." Reluctantly, almost without meaning to, he met her eyes. They were hard eyes, but light, and somehow eased his awareness of the silent storm behind him.

"Thanks," he repeated. She turned away, and Nathan dug in for next wait.


End file.
